


Second Miracle

by orphan_account



Series: Tumblr Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hopeful Ending, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:57:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John feels, observes and sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt by mishanterpret: "every feeling John feels when he finds out Sherlock is alive; they are face to face". Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

There are four steps between the sitting room door and his desk where he drops his bag. It’s a routine he always sticks to – one, two, three, take bag off shoulder, four, drop bag, take coat off, relax. Today, confusion stops him between his second and third step. He’s suspended mid-stride, off balance, with his bag ready to be put down by the desk. He slowly turns towards the intruder sitting calmly on his sofa. The instinct to arm and defend himself doesn’t kick in, what use is a gun against a  _ghost_?

Shock makes him drop his bag and take half a step back. He opens his mouth and finds himself unable to breathe. He cannot move any further, his muscles going rigid with tension. He opens and closes his mouth a few more times, failing to emit any intelligible sounds. The man sitting on his sofa stands up and John finally remembers how to breathe.

Someone is talking, and it must be  _him_ , because John cannot trust himself to do any more than just breathe. In. Out. Through his nose. In. Out. The man is closer now, his outstretched hand lightly touching John’s arm. The touch is like a jolt of electricity, snapping John out of shock and into action. Dead men can’t move or touch or call his name or say they’re sorry. Lying bastards, however, can and do.

Unspeakable rage clouds his mind. How  _dare_  he come back and just barge in like he belongs here. John throws the first punch, not sparing the nose or teeth this time. Sherlock – breathing, walking, talking, bleeding,  _alive_  – staggers backwards, nearly tripping over the coffee table. John catches his outstretched arm with his left hand, pulling him in, only to punch him again with his right. Sherlock stumbles again and falls in an undignified heap between the sofa and the coffee table. He hits the floor with a loud thump and a gasp. John throws himself on top of Sherlock, ready to start laying into him once more. The sight of his very much alive best friend shielding his face stops him only for a second. Instead, he fists his hands into the lapels of Sherlock’s coat – still that  _damned coat_  – and lifts Sherlock’s upper body off the floor only to slam it back down full force. Again. And again. He realises he’s shouting, hears himself yelling obscenities into Sherlock’s face. He feels angry and humiliated, because he believed the trick -  _just a magic trick_  – because he should’ve known. Grieving for no one for years, talking to an empty grave, making a fool out of himself for everyone to see.

He looks at Sherlock, really looks, and it’s suddenly too much. There’s blood on the side of his face, from the cut above his eyebrow, his split lips and his broken nose. Sherlock’s eyes are wide open and unblinking, his skin pale and almost translucent in the near darkness of the flat. He looks so much like he did  _then_. John lets go of the coat and starts to get up, to run away somewhere else, to be anywhere but here. Sherlock grabs his wrist and tugs firmly. He brings John’s fingers against his neck, pleading eyes begging to observe and to  _see_.

Oh.

_Oh._

A pulse beneath John’s fingers, rapid but steady.  _Don’t be dead_. It’s too much and not enough. John’s vision blurs, his face feels hot and wet. Relief makes him feel boneless and tired, barely keeping himself from collapsing onto Sherlock. Sherlock extricates himself from underneath John and pulls him into an embrace. John keeps his fingers on Sherlock’s pulse point, the other hand wrapping around his shoulder and neck. Sherlock’s arms encircle John’s waist, holding him close. Later, John will feel ashamed for sobbing so openly and breaking down so spectacularly, but for now he doesn’t care. He’s deliriously happy, beneath all the anger, because he knows how lucky he is to have another miracle come true.


End file.
